


Power Outage

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Oral, Power Outage, Roleplay, Stripping, instructions, rainstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “I’m merely trying to make the most out of an unusual situation.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Spoken like a master manipulator who wants another cat more than he wants a shag.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Q considers this, fingers pressing through James’ greying hair as his neck is kissed along his pulse. “As much,” he finally decides. </i>
</p><p>The power is out in the Bond household...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Outage

**Author's Note:**

> We've just realized that we've posted this a bit out of order with the rest, and mentioned their third cat without having posted the chapter where they got him! The joy and pain of writing dozens of chapters for these two in like a week. Flashback chapter next, we promise!

The wind has been constant for days, pushing the sheets of rain falling upon the city against the windows of the homes it contained. There hasn’t been a day that week when either James or Q have come home dry. Always dripping and cursing and forcing the cats to give them a wide berth until they changed into something more amenable.

The match plays at a low volume on the television, and although James would never admit to caring about the score, he does. A mug of tea steams on the table before him, and Peter lays stretched long and purring by his thigh. Just as the camera moves in to follow the ball, the voice of the commentator rising in pitch in his excitement, the screen goes black and the house groans beneath another onslaught of rain.

“Bollocks.”

For several moments James sits still, watching the screen as though it will miraculously light up once more. Beside him, Peter trills softly and stretches his legs over the edge of the couch.

“Alright,” James sighs, pushing to stand and running a hand over the soft fur of the cat that immediately voices his protest. “Give me a minute, demanding thing. You might see in the dark but we aren't so bloody lucky.”

He hears little paws hit the wooden floor softly and knows Peter follows him to the kitchen as he goes.

“How will your father find his way when he gets home through all of this, hmm?”

Peter offers a delighted chirp in reply.

“A fair point,” James allows, “if you can be trusted to act as sonar for him. Leading by squeaks alone.” To this, there’s no response from the little cat and James sighs. “You see? Undependable.”

James manages well enough, light filtering in dim through the window above the sink. He feels along the wall for the circuit box and slips the latch open. The breakers clack loudly, off and on, off and on. The lights remain unmoved by his endeavors and he curses again. Peter mewls and twines between his legs, expectant.

Through the window, the streetlamps fade cool from their former incandescence. All the other houses on the street are similarly dark, rain pelting damn near sideways against the street’s oily-black asphalt. He switches the breakers off again so they don’t blow when the power returns to the neighborhood, and slips out his phone to text Q.

_power’s gone_

_Bollocks_ , comes the quick reply.

_my thoughts exactly_

_I’m about to get on the tube_

_be safe_

James uses the light on his phone to look for the candles they store under the sink. Several different sizes, some already burned down. He takes his time setting them out on the counter and the table. He finds the matches, strikes and lights.

It is meditative. Comfortable. Comforting.

Were he not besieged by beasts leaving stripes of fur against his trouser legs, it might even be romantic.

But every other forethought he considers to make it inviting - tempting, even - falls flat. He can’t make tea because it’s an electric kettle. He can’t put on music. Bond wonders for a moment if he might be able to run out and get flowers before Q gets home, but another glance at the flashing sky and torrential downpour puts that idea to bed as well.

He regards Desmond, stretching long trembling legs against his own.

“Right.”

He scoops up Desmond beneath one arm, and reaches for Peter. The small shadow flees into the darkness, tail aloft in delight. Desmond complains, squeaking in a voice far too small for his body, and on his way past the couch, James plucks up Turing to hold against his chest. Up the stairs they go, toward the spare room.

“You two know how to mind, at least,” James confides in them. “Proper cats who know their master.”

A mewling complaint from Turing seems only to confirm James’ words, and he whispers to them both as he sets them into the room and closes the door. Peter he will catch. Sneak or no sneak, favourite or no, the little black spectre will find himself jailed as surely as his brothers soon enough. 

It is as much for their safety as the humans who live with them. Tripping over a cat in the dark while carrying a candle will end badly for the man, the cat and the candle all. He will free them to be fed when his husband comes home.

He finds the little cat not in the kitchen or the study, not by the stairs or under them.

“Sneaky shit,” James sighs, making his way with silent socked feet to the kitchen and reaching for the treats sealed away in an airtight container on the top shelf.

Tiny nails click against the floorboards as soon as the treats rattle in their container. James shakes one out as noisily as he can, eyes narrowing as a chirp trills in his direction. He moves slowly, but not suspiciously slow, and lowers it to the ground, but before he can react it’s snatched from his fingers and Peter takes off again.

Bond isn’t proud of cursing with such foul words towards a cat, but he can’t imagine Peter minds. This time, the shake doesn’t draw an immediate response. He carries it out into the living room and gives it a quick rattle. He needn’t hear his nemesis to know he’s there, watching. Waiting.

James may not be a double-oh agent anymore, but hell if he’s going to be outsmarted by a cat.

Slowly he settles into the couch, drawing his legs up so Peter can’t use them to balance on when he comes near. He will have to jump to the couch, close enough to reach. Another rattle and a brief click of nails before Peter - clever, silly thing - moves onto the rug where James won't be able to hear him.

Still the agent waits, one treat pulled free from the box and held secure and ready between his fingers. Silence in the house, just the rain outside, the occasional car hissing past. James tempers his breathing to slow, eases his heart rate, lets his eyes go out of focus as he anticipates the approach of his little monster.

He hears him only barely, close enough to touch, to catch. Still he sits, unmoving, hand held out and treat within.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the living room, Peter frozen in the moment of opening his little mouth just above the treat, pupils wide and huge, eyes glowing green in the light.

Then he disappears and James curses again, disoriented by the light, treatless and catless. 

Maybe he’s gone about this all wrong. Maybe, rather than shutting the cats away, they should simply leave them the house entirely and lock themselves in a panic room instead. No more treat-stealing thievery, no more seemingly absent-minded attempts to murder them by winding between their legs. They’ll simply live out the rest of their lives in a feline-free bliss and let the cats form a civilization of their own.

They’d just push their paws under the door and meow for attention.

“Alright, Peter,” Bond declares, accepting the absurdity of doing so. “You win. You’ve bested me. SPECTRE itself never managed that. Not terrorists, double-agents, explosions, car crashes. 007, defeated by a bloody cat.”

He sets the treats at his side and slumps down onto the couch, arm across his eyes. A few minutes pass, enough to lull him into complacency as to his fate. Cat-slave, until they manage to work their food out on their own. The rain patters steady against the windows, a low roll of thunder winding past.

Leather creaks, so softly he can barely hear it. When it happens again, Bond exhales slowly to release the anticipation firecracking quick through his nerves. The weight on the sofa shifts just a little. Motionless, he counts each paw as it presses against his belly and he’s trod upon, as Peter’s preferred pillow.

He counts.

One.

Two.

“Thank God I’ve a generator to keep the security system going,” Q exclaims, as the door bangs open from the wind. “What an absolute horror this weather’s been.”

Peter slips away so fast James hisses at the stab of claws he used to propel himself.

“Goddammit Q,” James mutters. “This close, this bloody close.” He pushes up from the couch and seals the treat container before going to meet his husband at the door.

“To what, the great flood?”

“To catching that bloody sod of an animal,” James complains, moving close enough to shuffle Q into the house, closing the door behind him. With a sigh he leans in and kisses Q softly on the lips, and then again. “God, look at you.”

“A right mess?”

“You look like a drowned rat.”

“Ta,” Q laughs, shoving against James before working his coat off to hang on the rack behind him. He works the scarf free next, unwinding it slowly, running a hand through his dripping hair as he does. Between his legs a shadow squirms and he bends to retrieve his cat. “What on earth were you doing before?”

For a moment, James can’t manage a word, as if every foul thing he wants to say to that beast gets stuck in his throat so that none emerge. Peter bumps his head against Q’s chin and Q tucks his nose against him, murmuring into his fur.

“Nothing,” James finally says. “Absolutely nothing.”

Q squints at him, peeling out of his shoes and pushing them beside the door with his toes. He’s dripping wet, though Peter hardly seems to mind, licking lightly the rain from his jaw. “You know you’re a miserable liar,” Q tells him.

“Only to you.”

“Do you want him?”

“To throw in the Thames, maybe.”

“Daddy’s in a bad mood, isn’t he,” Q asks Peter, kneading happily against his cardigan sleeve. “Daddy who is warm and dry and cozy. Daddy who was taking a nap mere moments ago.”

“I’ll have you know I was not taking a nap, I was hard at work making the house without lights and too many cats safe to live in.”

Q blinks at him. “Safe?”

“From us tripping on them. Devious things.”

Peter trills his joy again and jaws wide before pressing close to Q’s chest again. The quartermaster licks his lip into his mouth and raises a brow.

“Did you lock up my cats, 007?”

“Without parole,” James confirms, seeking for the little black cat as much to get his hands on him as to get him away from Q so he can change. “For good, too, I think. Upstairs.”

Q lets Peter go with evident misgivings, humming low in something like warning as James takes him with a heavy sigh. “He came right to me.”

“I saw that,” Bond says, bitterly.

“Did you try treats?”

“Yes, I tried the bloody treats.”

“Did you try speaking kindly to him?”

“I said words I’d rather my husband not hear me repeat.”

Fighting down a grin, Q furrows his brow and gives Peter one more pat before he’s carted away. “No wonder he ran,” he says, following James up the stairs. He glances toward the kitchen, the candles sparkling throughout the darkened house. His chest warms so suddenly that it feels expansive and broad, and he smiles secretly behind his agent.

“He made it into a game, I think.”

“And you lost,” Q notes with delight.

For a moment, James considers locking his husband in with the felines. 

“Spare room,” James tells him, turning and catching a hand in the front of Q’s shirt. “I’ll get you a towel, wet wonder.”

Q grins and leans to kiss him, enjoying the gentle nuzzle James presses to the side of his nose before he lets him go and hands the little black cat over again.

As James moves to the master, Q carefully opens the door to the spare room and slinks inside. Within, Desmond and Turing mewl in greeting, trotting over for pets and cuddles despite Q's clothes dripping, drenched.

“Hello gentlemen,” Q says, setting Peter down and gathering Desmond to him next, settling to the floor so Turing can climb into his lap. “Has Daddy been terrible? Tyrannical and frightening?”

“I have been no such thing,” James calls from the other room.

“Listen to him, the great brute. Locking you away as if you’re common criminals,” Q clucks, just loud enough that James can hear him. He taps Peter lightly on the nose. “But you were too clever, weren’t you, darling boy?” His finger is rubbed against, nose to cheek, then the other side.

“Miscreants, all of them.”

“Lovely creatures.”

“Dreadful. It’s almost as if no one’s taught them the proper way to behave.”

“Because I don’t need to, do I,” Q croons at them. “You’re already perfect.”

He displaces them only long enough to work off his tie and cardigan and plop them wet to the floor. He strips down to his undershirt, clinging transparent to his chest, and sprawls back across the floor to lift his hips and unbuckle his belt. Turing grinds his face possessively against Q’s own, unseating his glasses. Wriggling free of his trousers, arched between shoulders and pointed toes pressed to the floor, James enters just as Q slips the waistband down to his thighs.

“Hello, 007.”

“Bloody hell,” James mumbles, eyes wide and lips parted. He closes the door before the cats can escape again and accepts the firm nuzzling from their youngest as he steps nearer. “No one’s taught you how to properly behave either.”

“Need you to?”

“God no,” James tells him, lowering himself to kneel behind Q, knees on either side of Q’s head as he sets the towel to his wild wet hair. 

“Remain this delectable deviant thing forever.”

Q slides his glasses off, spotted with rain and smudged blurry. He snorts laughter from beneath the rough scrubbing he receives, and remains arched onto his toes as he works leg by leg out of his trousers. In only his undershirt, pants, and striped socks, Q starts to lower himself to the floor but James’ quick hand presses against the small of his back to keep him bent.

“Remain,” he says again, and Q’s nose wrinkles as he grins. “I’m going to dry you.”

“Now who’s a bloody deviant.”

“Or a caring husband, who wishes his partner to avoid pneumonia.”

“Both, I imagine.”

“You’ve still got clothes on.”

Q hums meaningfully, muscles trembling from holding himself bridged like this. He takes in the sight of James above him, all but straddling his face, and reaching to wrap his arms around James’ waist, he pulls him low enough to kiss the inside of his thigh. Q murmurs against his leg, voice spreading warmth, “Was this your intention all along? To give us an audience while we enjoy the power outage? Too long away from seducing each other over comms, with the poor transcribers and M listening in.”

“Who have you been talking to?” James jokes. “It’s as though you know me.”

He runs a gentle hand down Q’s face, against his throat. He doesn't move from the compromising position he has gotten them into. Instead he curls his fingers beneath Q’s wet shirt and gently slicks it up his chest. Inch by inch, cool skin revealed beneath, James presses his hot palm against Q’s stomach until he gasps and shivers. 

“Down to your back for a moment, Quinn,” James tells him. When Q obliges, he makes quick work of the undershirt and coaxes Q to arch his back again as he slips the towel beneath him and over his stomach, rubbing gently. As much to warm as to dry, James takes his time caressing Q this way, before he ducks his head to kiss just beneath his navel.

“You’re going to need a warming up.”

“I’m not feeling particularly frigid at the moment,” Q murmurs, splaying his toes to balance better on them. He catches James’ inseam between his teeth and plucks it, grinning wide when his husband rumbles approval above him.

“That’ll make it easier then.”

Bond rests the towel over Q’s belly and hooks his fingers in his pants, baring him slowly. He isn’t hard, and James is curiously pleased by this. Revealing Q’s softened, chilled cock nestled against the thick hair between his legs, they work together with one bent over the other to slip his pants to his knees and drop them down.

“Exhibitionist,” accuses Q, skin prickling into goosepimples.

“Proudly,” James purrs, kissing against Q’s cool thigh before working the towel over the skin there to warm and dry it. As wonderfully sexual as this could become, James would be entirely content to just hold Q against him, wrapped in blankets in bed all night.

He gently directs one foot to be lifted, then the other, freeing Q from his pants. His socks he leaves, surprisingly dry despite how sopping the rest of Q had been. He kisses against his knee, down his calf, over the elastic on his sock before sitting back and hooking his arms beneath Q’s shoulders to bring him up into James’ lap. He wraps the towel around him and his arms atop that, and kisses Q's cheek.

Smiling wide, Q squirms back against him, wriggling into the dry warmth of his husband’s body and the towel alike. His arms trapped beneath, skinny legs splayed against the floor, he rests his head back against James’ shoulder and flutters lazy kisses against his neck. It’s peaceful without the persistence of light or electric hum, rarely noticed but now felt keenly in their absence. The storm rages on outside but they are safe, warm and together. There’s no place for them to be and nothing that needs to be done and can be done with the electricity off.

It’s a rare holistic freedom, and Q finds himself hoping that their phones die too before the power comes back on to charge them. He chooses to pretend he’s not got a drawer of back-up standalone chargers for just this very purpose.

“My bottom’s cold,” Q whispers. James exaggerates his dismay with a frown and obediently tucks his hands beneath, giving his cheeks a squeeze.

“Better?”

“Much. Although…”

“Now what?”

“We’re being watched.”

James regards the cats lazily meandering around the room, some seeking with wet noses against the windowsill, others sitting before them just watching. It is hilariously unnerving and James hums against Q’s hair.

“I think they may be on to us,” he says softly. “I know of an extraction that could work but -”

“But?”

“It will be dangerous,” James purrs, nosing along the rim of Q’s ear. “Sacrifices will need to be made.”

“No casualties, 007.”

“With stakes this high, collateral damage is inevitable.”

Turing tackles Desmond and kicks at him with his back feet, eliciting a piteous mewl from the older cat.

“Right,” Q says. “We’ll do our best then. But we need to move quickly, there’s only a short window before - hell!”

He laughs as he’s uprooted from the floor, snatched up James’ arms and held bridal-style. Clinging to Bond’s neck, Q grins as James backs toward the door.

“Now pay attention, 007.”

“I’m listening.”

“They’ve not noticed you yet, but they will the moment you touch the door. Drop your left hand and grasp the knob. Open the door just enough to slip through before they retaliate. I’ll be with you the whole way.”

“Right,” James licks his lips and drops his left hand. They both watch the cats stretch and play together - Peter staring out the window at the rain, Desmond nosing against Q’s discarded shirt and Turing trying to pin down Desmond’s tail.

“On three, 007.”

James takes a breath, his smile wide and delighted, holding Q close against him, the man in nothing but socks and a towel. It is ridiculous. They are ridiculous. James loves him beyond words.

“Three,” he says, before Q can even start to count, and turns the doorknob. 

Q curses and laughs all at once as they back out of the room. Only Peter makes a run for it, quick as lightning, but the door clicks shut again before he can escape. Q’s hoisted onto one arm and over James’ shoulder as the agent turns, triumphant, towards the bedroom.

“My clothes!”

“Casualties of a difficult operation.”

“They’ll be covered in fur by tomorrow.”

“We all have to make sacrifices, darling.”

“You’ve gone rogue,” Q bemoans, though as he does he takes the opportunity of his position to shamelessly grope his husband’s backside. “Kidnapping, foremost. Criminal disregard of the Queen’s property. Mutiny.”

“Mutiny?”

“Defying direct orders given by your superior,” Q grins.

James gently slaps a hand against Q’s thigh and holds there, turning into the bedroom to carry Q to bed.

“Sometimes one makes a judgement call.”

“You’re bloody terrible,” Q declares, and James grins, setting him to bed and kissing him.

“And you’re bloody freezing. Get in.”

As Q squirms around getting under the covers, James slips his shirt over his head and tosses it to the hamper. He steps out of his trousers and out of his pants, and in a show of solidarity keeps his socks on before walking back to bed.

“Scoot.”

“No.”

James lifts a brow, folding his arms. Q stretches lax and lithe-bodied as any of their feline housemates, legs spread wide and arms above his head. He takes up as much space as he possibly can, wriggling against chilly sheets that will soon warm with their bodies beneath.

“I want to look at you,” Q tells him, lifting a hand in an elegant motion. “Just so.”

“Surveying the wreckage, more like. A once-fit figure giving way to laziness and extra biscuits with tea.”

“I love it,” Q tells him. “It’s as if all the tension’s gone out of you, and made your sharp edges softer.”

“That would be the extra folds of neglect,” James says and Q smiles wider. In truth, James has hardly let himself go enough to warrant notice. He has stopped obsessively keeping his body in shape. He enjoys, now, similar things as he did before but without the mandated exercise that would once hone him down to physical perfection.

And, if he admits it, he loves that Q loves him this way.

James spreads his arms and smiles, tilting his head to the side before turning on the spot for Q to see him properly in the bare light they have. He pushes to his toes and settles again, and when he turns to Q once more his nose wrinkles in delight.

“Now I’m cold,” he says. “Take pity on an old man.”

“Wearing just his socks,” Q adds fondly.

“So are you.”

“I’m not an old man,” Q grins, finally relenting and making space for James to join him. He no sooner lies down than Q is atop him, legs spread over his hips and hearts beating against the other’s chest. He grazes their lips together, closing them softly again and again. James’ fingers push firmly through his untidy curls, drying wild.

James grimaces when Q’s cool skin presses against his groin, but he suffers without remark, tugging Q’s hair enough to part their lips. “How was it today?”

“Work? Quiet,” Q says. “Blessedly quiet, now that they’ve let me focus on engineering. Ms. Davies overcharged a battery that burst, thankfully unattended when it did. 008’s gone afield again so I listened in to that for a while.”

James runs his hands up and down Q’s back to bring warmth back to his skin. He smiles when socked feet stroke against his calves.

“008’s notorious for forgetting to communicate,” James reminds him and Q hums, settling closer against him, cheek against his collarbone.

“I refused to head the team, I merely provided the -”

“Gadgets,” James finished for him, relishing the word. Q gently pinches him in reprimand.

“Equipment,” he corrects, “for the mission. Other than that, M didn't come by, too busy, I suspect. He has a conference in Amsterdam later this week. God knows if he’ll even be able to fly out for it.”

“Perhaps he’ll be lucky and the power goes down all over the city,” James murmurs. “And we will be, too, for you won't have to go to work.”

Q laughs against James’ shoulder, allowing the pleasure to curl through him and rock his body closer to James’ own. “One mustn’t doubt the fortitude of the Tube.”

“I could think of ways to knock it offline.”

“Undoubtedly costing unconscionable sums to the government and with loads of explosions alongside.”

“You know me so well,” Bond murmurs, clutching Quinn’s curls and breathing warmly against his hair. They tuck together kisses and nuzzles, rubbing together too lazily for it to be considered rutting. There’s no impetus behind the movements, hardly even a conscious thought in them. Rather, it’s an eagerness to feel the other’s body - broad and firm, slight and skinny - touching everywhere they possibly can.

“Were I to bunk off work due to my husband demolishing our fair transit system,” Q muses, “M’s response would be, ‘You’ve got legs, don’t you?’”

“And if those were incapacitated, he would have you swim,” James agrees, laughing. “I would hardly have you get in trouble simply because I want you home with me.”

Q snorts and James settles his arms heavily over his lower back, holding him close. His eyes are hooded when he leans back and Q shifts against him, and he smiles.

“I love you,” James says. “I thought perhaps we could have a romantic evening of it with candlelight and tea and dinner, perhaps, but the lack of electricity shot that plan right in the face.”

“If dinner was only a ‘perhaps’, then the rest isn’t out of order.”

“I can’t heat water for tea without a kettle.”

“We have a kettle.”

“An electric monstrosity.”

“And one for the range,” Q says, brow lifted as he looks up at James and revels in his expression of mild dismay. “Come now, I’m not a savage, 007. There are always contingency plans in place when it comes to tea.”

“The candles are already lit,” James suggests, closing his eyes as Q nuzzles into a kiss.

“And left unattended, downstairs. You do like to play dangerously, don’t you, Mr. Bond?”

“Every day of my life,” James admits, leaning in to kiss Q again. He feels warmer, now, having peeled those wet clothes away. They could make it downstairs without issue or incident now, wrapped in their dressing gowns and warm fleecy sleep pants.

“Shall we, then?” Q asks.

“Yes, let's,” James grins. “Let's enjoy a candle lit tea with whatever the pantry holds as our supper.”

“It is just going on eight,” Q comments.

“Christ, is it really? With this bloody storm I’ve lost all ability to predict what time it is.”

Q pushes upward, hands braced against James’ chest to drag himself upright. The blanket tents from his shoulders and slips slowly downward, and he tucks it around his waist to keep the heat they’ve built trapped within. Bond’s hands curl around his thighs, fingertips fanning through fine, dark hair and over tender skin, tickling just beneath his bottom. Q bites his bottom lip and curls his body in a sinuous twist, rocking away from James’ hot hands and pushing back into them again.

“Did you know,” Q says, “that there are small spikes in the birthrate nine months after a substantial power outage?”

James blinks up at him, eyes wide a moment in genuine worry before they narrow and he squeezes Q's ass in retribution. “You’re a shit.”

“You can't argue with statistics, James.”

“Statistics or not, my darling, we are not getting another cat.”

On his surface, Q is a creature of beguiling innocence. Dark hair curled into a youthful corona around spotless features, smooth skin kept regally pale by his lack of exposure to the sun. Wide eyes made wider still by his glasses, and a penchant for dressing outside his demographic by decades that makes him seem sweeter and younger. He laughs at his own jokes, and sometimes snorts when he’s particularly pleased. He speaks as if he’s in a tutorial, still, dulcet tones softening the keen mind behind his words.

On his surface, Q is an angel, eternally youthful and hopelessly lovely.

James knows better. When Q bites his bottom lip just so and tilts his head back, it’s a calculated maneuver. When he arches his back and pushes out his bottom, cock stroking in a clumsy rut against James’ belly, that too is deliberate. The needy little sound that quakes into his sigh seems to startle him but it’s all intentional, and just as James’ eyes begin to hood, ensorceled by this temptation, he opens them wide again.

“You wanted tea,” James reminds him, brow raised and fingers touching just gently against Q’s thighs as he rocks against him again.

“You did,” Q corrects him. “I wanted to check on the candles so the house wouldn't go up.” Another bite to his lip and James’ eyes narrow further. He catches Q around the waist and turns them, both laughing and tangling in the blankets, until James is atop his little quartermaster instead. 

“Terrible. You truly are terrible, you know that?” James tells him fondly.

“And you’re stuck with me,” Q reminds him, squirming aimless and happy again, arms and legs curling and squeezing and sliding free of the heavy body over his. “I’m merely trying to make the most out of an unusual situation.”

“Spoken like a master manipulator who wants another cat more than he wants a shag.”

Q considers this, fingers pressing through James’ greying hair as his neck is kissed along his pulse. “As much,” he finally decides, sputtering laughter when James’ hands dig into his sides.

He’s held easily by Bond’s body, trapped in place with nothing more he can do than kick and curse and snort laughter. James wedges one hand in his armpit, tickling viciously, and uses the other to catch his leg mid-kick and tickle him beneath his knee. Q pulls his hair. He shouts wordless. He gasps and laughs again, until he can hardly even take a breath.

Only then do James’ hands get replaced by warm lips, just as tickling but somehow gentler, softer.

Until he presses air against Quinn’s skin and they both fall to childish giggling over the silly sound it makes. They are always young together, always silly and carefree and innocent. No one else is that for them, just each other, and neither would have it any other way.

“You’re a prick,” Q laughs, catching James’ face and holding him close.

“I love you.”

“Uncontrollable. Can't take you anywhere.”

“I love you,” James laughs, seeking for a kiss.

“A right bloody menace.”

“I love you,” James purrs. And when next Q speaks, it is as he relents.

“I love you too.”

“Tea,” James tells him, adding a full stop with a kiss. “Candles.” Another kiss, against the corner of his lips. “Supper.”

This time Q leans to steal the kiss but James has already slid off of him, escaping off the side of the bed before Q can snatch him back. The quartermaster makes no motion to follow, watching instead the way the dim light from outside spills like mercury over the rises of James’ body, the hollows shadowed dark. From broad shoulders to the dimpled small of his back, down further still to his bum, still gloriously tight and rounded firm.

Q slips a hand beneath the blankets and tugs himself a little, and then a little more when James bends to pull sleep pants from the dresser for them.

“How on Earth am I so lucky?” Q asks, and without standing fully, James glances towards him, smile narrowing his eyes. “Out of everyone, potentially thousands who’d give a kidney just to spend the night with you.”

“Kidneys go for little on the black market these days,” James says, lazily standing straight once more and smiling wide at Quinn who snorts, hand still beneath the covers. “Hardly worth the investment.”

“So I was a good economical bet?”

“Yes,” James replies, decisive. “Though a terrible investment. You overwork yourself, you're stubborn, you have three cats -”

“Two when we met.”

“You see? Chronically understaffed, when I met you. Unbelievable.” He walks nearer and tosses some trousers Q’s way as he clutches his own. “You’re beautiful and dress poorly, make utterly awful dinner and incredible coffee. Making love with you is like seeing God. No idea why I've decided I want you. None at all.”

“Like seeing God,” Quinn echoes, entirely pleased by this, and a little embarrassed by the praise. He rubs his cheek against the pillow and strokes his cock again, just once. “High praise from a man akin to one, with all the glory and ego one would expect. I think it’s because I didn’t immediately hurtle myself into bed with you.”

“I had to chase you down. Flirtation first, then finally just cornering you in your office.”

“Brute,” smiles Q, as he finally drags his pajamas closer to slide them on. “I didn’t know you were bisexual.”

“And you thought I was a prick.”

“The present tense would be equally applicable as the past,” Q quips, setting his feet to the floor and standing to tug the pants up around his narrow hips. “I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. Even when I invited you over, I imagined you’d mark the notch on your belt and we’d never speak of it again.”

James comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Q’s middle, keeping step with him as Q laughs and attempts to waddle his way towards the door.

“Do you know,” James tells him, “I was so worried you would think me inadequate. I know my skills in bed are enviable but with you I felt like that kid in Paris again, wondering how the hell,” James kisses behind Q’s ear, “he got so lucky.”

“Past tense?” Q asks, smiling.

“Present,” James answers.

Q shivers with warmth, the heat of James’ arms and the embers of his words. He grasps his husband’s arms around him as they walk together, finding their steps, laughing as they try to work their way down the stairs together. At least if they fall, Quinn imagines, they’d fall together.

The house is darker than it ever is, even with the lights off. There’s no blinking lights of electronics at rest, no steady glow from the curious sensors Q keeps strategically placed in odd corners. Only the kitchen is aglow with the emergency candles still flickering steadily. It is strangely romantic, as the best surprises born of necessity tend to be. Q turns on socked feet and slips an arm over James’ shoulders, pressing the palm of his other hand to James’ own in something like a dancer’s hold.

“I think that’s what I first loved about you,” Quinn tells him. “Not those parts I admired or desired, but loved, with that sensation of one’s heart being suddenly compressed. It was your uncertainty.”

James smiles because he can’t help it, wide and delighted and warm, and sets a hand to Q’s hip while his other curls around his fingers.

“You astound me,” James tells him. “With everything you are. I felt so foolish flirting with you on the comms until I heard you laugh or sigh in that way you have, or hum. And then I knew I couldn’t stop.”

He leads them into a simple box step and grins as Q laughs, pressing closer but keeping up. 

“I didn’t know what to do with myself when I woke up and in the morning you were still in bed with me. I think I stopped breathing for a few moments. It was unreal.”

“Charmer.”

“You have me, entirely, head over heels,” James assures him, leading Q into a gentle turn.

Q allows himself to follow, rather than to lead, despite his immediate impulse to do so. He glides smoothly in time with James’ steps, a fraction of a heartbeat behind, their hands folded close and their bodies closer still. Eyes closed, Quinn rests his cheek against James’ shoulder, pulse flickering faster as he lets himself be moved and trusts in James to keep them both upright.

“You were shameless,” he smiles. “The things you said to me over comms that all of Q Branch overheard. Moreso in the things you said to me in private. I told myself that you were toying with me, for better or for worse.”

“Which would have been…”

“For better? To make me react so that you could tease me more. For worse? To goad me into saying something inappropriate, so you could have a handler without spots.” James laughs at this, low and pleased to hear now - years later - of Q’s doubts. Quinn shakes his head though and tucks his nose against Bond’s neck, steadying his breath even as his head spins sweetly from their movements.

“I enjoyed it, though,” Q admits. “Feeling as if I held your attention in every way, as if you centered yourself body and mind on my voice. I began to appreciate the idea that in less tense moments, I could provide a distraction from all of that, if only for teasing.”

James turns his head against Q’s hair and their joined hands down closer to their bodies as they just sway together. It is warm within their house, quiet but for the rain outside. Their own haven earned and held together after so long in uncertainty.

James knows that Q understands the power simple words of encouragement had on him. James knows that Q understands that when he woke shaking and sobbing against him that simply touching him always brought him home.

They have saved each other in every way. They still do.

“You always have my attention, you greedy thing,” James tells him softly. 

“As a quartermaster should have from his agent,” smiles Quinn, “and a husband from his husband. I plan on keeping it, too. I am avarice incarnate when it comes to you, and I fear I’ll never be fully sated.”

“All the more chances to satisfy you,” James murmurs, and Quinn laughs as he’s dipped, eyes opening on the return upward. Spun once, Q collapses happily against Bond, and sinks their mouths together. He frames James’ face with his hands and leans in to nuzzle him, stopping cold.

James’ mouth dries in an instant, every muscle cocked and ready to fire. He doesn’t move as Q’s eyes widen, and he takes lightning-strike inventory of what’s around them. Knives on the counter, chairs beside them, Q he’ll shove beneath the table and…

“We have company,” Q whispers, as a plaintive mewl squeaks from the living room.

James exhales a long and pained sigh. “How in all bloody hell -”

They have only had Turing for a few months. He’s a little thing, a slinky and sneaky thing, and although over the years together now, James has grown used to herding their two other boys, he often forgets Turing.

But he didn't this time. He is certain he didn't. 

“Did he slip under the door?” James asks, rhetorical and knowing full well the question is ridiculous. “Through it, perhaps, like a ghost.”

Q grins, resting his brow against James’ shoulder. His own begin to tremble, quaking mutely, until laughter sputters free, gasping delight. He brings a hand to his cheeks and smears away the tears before wrapping his arms around James’ middle to squeeze him close.

“He’s outsmarted both of us,” Q mutters against James as the older man curses. “The greatest quartermaster MI6 has ever known and an acceptably skilled double-oh agent…”

“I swear, I’ll lock you in there with them.”

“It’s fine, Turing will have the door open within minutes,” Q laughs, again losing himself to helpless delight as he ducks to lift the precocious little kitten that comes to them. He cradles the purring beast between them both, and chooses not to mention that the other two have already made themselves comfortable on the couch behind James’ back. “Clever boy,” he praises him. “James, tell him he’s clever.”

“I refuse,” James mumbles, and Q snorts, snaking his head. 

“One must be a gracious loser,” he reminds him, delighted to see a dry look predictably sent his way for the comment. Turing presses his bony paws against James’ chest as Q turns the cat to him, and Turing makes that whiny mewl again, enormous eyes blinking up at James.

The agent can hardly stand up to his husband’s charms, nor their cats’. With a sigh he relents, drawing a large palm over the little cat’s head and accepting the purr he gets in return.

“You’re terribly clever, awful thing,” he whispers, taking the kitten gently from Q and bringing him up to press a kiss between his large eyes. Tiny paws settle to James’ cheeks and the skinny little rat tail sways back and forth, softly striking James’ wrists. He truly is the strangest wee thing.

“And what are we to do with you now, hmm?” James continues. “Now that we would like to make some tea and enjoy the candlelight alone? What are we to do with you?”

“He earned his freedom,” Q says, as he pads to find the old kettle kept stashed with the rest of the unused kitchen cookery. “It seems unfair to return him to captivity.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

“Did you know, or did you hope?”

“Hello, Peter,” James sighs, without needing to so much as lower his eyes. A warm, sleek body coils in a figure-eight around his legs, purring noisily. “And Desmond? Why not have everyone here for a romantic evening alone, to share in plans of seduc-...”

“Desmond!” Q exclaims. James blinks at the pleasure, as if Desmond had vanished a decade before and not been seen until now. Quinn scoops up the mass of fluff and carries him with one arm, as he fills the kettle with the other. Setting it to the stove, the gas thankfully still working, he turns to lay a narrow gaze on James. “Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Trying to seduce me.”

James clicks his tongue and draws a hand against the back of his neck in a gesture that is almost nervous.

“Gosh, I should try harder then, huh,” James says, affecting an accent that sits on him so badly it's comical. “If you can't tell.”

Quinn gives him a withering look, though not without the hint of a smile in the corners of his eyes as he turns back to assemble tea. Desmond remains placid in his left arm, a little too large to be held this way, but hardly minding.

“Much,” Q finally answers, affecting an accent of his own but one that comes with an ease that alarms him. Posh. Well-bred. Oxford blue, through and through. “As if I’m the sort to be struck asunder by candles and flowers. You did get me flowers, didn’t you?” He asks, endeavoring valiantly to fight down a smile.

James bites his lip, his own eyes narrowed in pleasure. It is not often that Q plays up this part of himself. Sometimes when he and James have had a comfortable amount of wine, when they gesticulate and rant and dazzle each other with stories of things gone by.

Then.

And now, it seems, giddy on the darkness and the intimacy of it.

“Just myself,” James replies. 

There’s a pause, needed to ease the delight from his heart and voice, and then Q snorts with practiced derision. “Bully for me,” he declares, the words formed small through tightened lips, chin tilted upward. “A half-dressed man and emergency candles. Is this how you seduce all your potential partners?”

“It usually works,” James says, stepping closer and releasing Turing to the floor.

“Implying that I’m the ‘usual sort’,” Q answers. He rolls his shoulders and straightens them a bit, allowing Desmond down, and turning with two mugs of tea in hand and an arched brow. “Very charming, Mr. Bond. Every man wants to be told that he’s average.”

“Hardly so below the waist,” James immediately tells him, teeth flashing in a smile before he presses his lips together again. When he first discovered this gloriously dominant side of Q he shamelessly exploited it. Always delighted, contented, sometimes aching to submit to his whims entirely. 

“How can I make amends?” he offers, stepping closer and taking a mug from Q's hand to hold in his own. “How can I correct such a monumental error, Mr. Bond?”

Q blinks, surprised by this, but swiftly smooths his expression into something akin to disregard. He closes the distance between them with a lithe shove forward from the counter. Chest to chest with James, Q grasps his hair just hard enough to bare his neck a little, and watch his husband’s pulse quicken in his throat.

“Don’t spill your tea,” Q tells him. “That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” breathes James. Q clears his throat and the sound carries down to the very pit of James’ stomach. “Yes, Mr. Bond.”

“Do you think you’re good enough for someone like me?” He asks. His voice lilts delicately, scarcely inflected. Quinn hardly grew up in the circles that would speak with such posh airs as this, but between Eton and Oxford, he couldn’t help but pick up the cadence along the way. “Do you, truly?”

“That isn’t up to me,” he says. “That’s up to you.”

Q’s smile widens and he pushes onto his toes, cheek brushing against James’ scruff. His lips part against his ear and he sighs, “I do. Truly.”

James hums and sets a flat wide palm against Q’s shoulder, curling his fingers to scratch softly against his skin.

“God I love you, you poncy arse.” James sighs, holding his mug out so neither get burned as he kisses the side of Q’s face, lingering and long. “I would have been shit scared of you at university.”

Q laughs. “Really?”

“Oh yes. I was a terribly clumsy flirt and even worse at being creative with dating.”

“I don’t follow,” Q tells him, kissing his neck again. One of the cats nudges up against their legs and goes on his way.

“You wouldn’t have even given me the time of day,” James clarifies. “I hadn't the confidence then to keep trying. But,” he grins, pulling back just enough to see Q. “Perhaps I would have found myself dropping my books by your table in the library. And crawling beneath it to retrieve a wayward pencil. I have a feeling you wouldn't have let me out from under there in a hurry, no words necessary.”

Q shivers out a breathy moan, brow creasing at the thought of it. Of course he knows that the Bodleian, while most beautiful, would be too heavily occupied to get away with any of that, which isn’t to say that Q didn’t have it off in the stacks like everyone else. But perhaps Magdalen’s library would have sufficed, sequestered and scarcely used by those who’d rather take her books out to the commons to study.

“The floorboards would creak beneath your knees,” Quinn whispers. “The scent of ancient pages foxing day by day around us, well-loved leather and polished wood a century old or more. Midday, when I was between tutorials. I’d know you weren’t from my college but your hand on my thigh would stop me from asking what in God’s name you thought you were doing. I was nervous, too, you see - don’t laugh, my neuroses now pale in compare to then.”

“Would it have stopped you?”

“No,” Q laughs low, curling his fingers to drag his nails down James’ bare chest. “Never.”

“Good,” James laughs, bringing his mug to his lips and taking a sip of the earthy and warm tea. He licks his lips and adjusts his weight to carry it on his cocked hip, eyes narrowing. “You would have to sit there, then, by the window -”

“Why a window?”

“You enjoy a wall at your side when you write by hand,” James points out absently. The fact he knows that brings warmth to Q’s cheeks. “You would have had to sit there and keep quiet while I fumbled with your belt, worked open the button on your trousers, pulled the zipper low…”

Q grasps James’ hair at the place where they grow thin and short, just above his neck. He moans again, a soft sound faint and fleeting. This is not the deliberate machinations he ground against Bond in the bed upstairs. This is unintentional, nearly unconscious, a visceral response to stimulation that supersedes the absurdity of their actual context.

“Someone might hear us,” Quinn warns him.

“Then let them, or keep still.”

Biting his lip, Quinn traps another helpless sound behind it. He curves upward to his toes, trembling when their bodies brush together, half-bare. His fingers tighten.

“Show me,” he grins, “and I’ll tell you what I see.”

James draws his lips back from his teeth and smiles, eyes hooded as he watches Quinn before him. He blinks, just once, in pleased assent, and reaches to set his mug to the counter beside the candles. 

“Sit down,” he tells Q softly, smiling into the kiss bestowed upon him before Q lets him go and does.

Their table happens to share a side with the wall. They needn’t more than the four spaces that set-up offers them and haven't moved it since the last time they hosted a holiday dinner. Once in a while he catches Q sitting at the head of it, carefully penning a letter or a note, or merely correcting reports while his left hand folds beneath his chin and keeps it poised.

And so he goes there now, settling as he always does, his mug before him and his legs crossed at the ankles, pushed under the chair. 

He is extraordinary. James reaches to push close to him a candle and one of the newspapers they left on the table the morning before, crossword yet unfinished and pen atop.

“Don’t spill your tea,” James warns him playfully, and with a wink lets drop the pen so it rolls on the floor and under the table.

Q wishes the damn cats had stayed in their room.

The pen stops against his toes and his leg twitches, but he doesn’t move it. Anticipation speeds his thundering heart as James settles to his knees, disappearing beneath the table. Quinn swallows, throat so dry it clicks, and parts his lips with a helpless sound.

“No one’s here,” he says softly. “Everyone’s out enjoying the clear day or in their studies, or in one of the bigger, flasher libraries than this one. That’s why I liked - like, that’s why I like it. Everything’s a little outdated. Everything’s a little dusty. No one can find me here to interrupt me,” he says, “until you.”

He draws a breath and it holds, suspended, as James sets a hand against his thigh. Quinn works his bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, reddened and swollen. “I want to know what you think you’re doing. I want to know how you’ve gotten in here at all, since it’s not your college. We both know you don’t belong. I’ve seen you before, I remember you - you asked me out to a place I hate, not knowing that I did, and I brushed you off in favor of studying.”

Quinn laughs, weak, as James’ hands slide higher.

“I was wrong to be so cruel,” he says.

James hums, shifting his knees on the floor. Theirs doesn’t creak, but he imagines the one in the library would, just a little.

“Maybe it's my getting back at you for it,” he muses, setting both hands to Q’s thighs now. “Maybe this is the only way I think you will notice. If this falls flat I wouldn't have it in me to try again.”

He leans in, then, nosing between Q’s legs and smiling against him. He kisses the skin he knows is sensitive beneath the flannel sleep pants until Q makes a sound.

“I’d hoped you'd be alone at the library. I’d hoped you would be bored and watching through the window. I’d hoped you would pull your satchel up closer to cover me even a little where I kneel.”

“I wouldn’t,” Quinn tells him, not unamused. “This was your idea. Your undertaking. It’s you that put yourself in the precarious position. Had you asked me first…”

“Had I asked you?”

“Had you asked me first,” Q says, pausing. “No, I’d not have told you I’m disinterested. It would be too great a lie.”

“Move your bag.”

“I do, when you ask me to,” he sighs, unhooking his feet and spreading his legs wide to either side of James. “It’ll buy you a few moments at least, if someone enters. More to the point, it will buy me a few moments to - oh, God,” he sighs, when hot fingers skim against his sides and hook in his pajamas to bring them low. “How did you know?”

“About you?”

“Yes. Not that I’d be here, but that…” He draws a deep breath and tilts his head back, slouching in his seat as his cock is bared. “But that I’m gay. I would worry about that - I did, if it’s obvious or not.”

“A gut feeling,” James tells him softly, sitting up and bowing his shoulders so he can kiss against Quinn’s belly. “Just there. You're magnetic.”

He imagines Q as he would have been then. Proud and brash and beautiful. Too clever for his classes, taking on more work to keep his mind busy, to remain curious. He imagines Q dressed in ill-fitting clothes, running his elegant hands through unruly hair. He imagines his huge glasses, his gorgeous jawline, his narrowed eyes and bitten lips and with a moan leans in to suck a kiss against the base of his cock.

“God,” Quinn sighs, sprawling deep now in his chair, one arm propped against the wall beside and fingers lodged in his own hair. The other comes to rest in James’ silky straight strands, neither pushing nor pulling but simply stroking. “I didn’t want to want this. I didn’t want to want you. You’re cute…”

James laughs against his groin and draws another lazy kiss against his stiffening dick.

“Very cute,” allows Q. “Not my type, though. And you’re cocky.”

“Insufferably.”

“I don’t like that. But I don’t like it in a way that makes me want to screw it out of you. People look at you and expect that you would be, with reason to back it up. No one looks at me that way, but I love to prove them wrong. I’m going to prove you wrong now, because I’m not going to just sit here and squirm and let you have this over me.”

“Make me work for it,” James whispers. Q tightens his grip just a little to drag James’ mouth against the base of his cock. It jerks upward, filling quickly now, caught against the waistband of his trousers.

“Are you down there to pick up your pen,” Q asks, affecting once more his poshest intonation, “or are you down there to suck me off?”

James makes a show of drawing his nails against the floor as he grasps his pen before he lifts his eyes. Q doesn’t look down at him, as he wouldn't have, had they done this at university, but James gets to watch his lips part and press together, over and over. He is lovely.

He is a posh, stuck up, stubborn shit.

Without another word, James shifts enough to take Quinn into his mouth, letting his eyes close as he takes in the familiar smell of his husband, as he imagines him younger, coltish and lithe and angry, as all teenagers are. He hums as he pulls off, sighing at the tightening of fingers in his hair, and leans in again to take Q deeper. Quinn’s cock swells throbbing against his tongue, and they moan in tandem.

“Good man,” Q laughs, voice low and throaty, roughened by desire. “A little further now.”

James bows his head and obeys, not because he’s forced but because he wishes to do so, and moreso because Quinn wishes him to do so. His throat clicks, tongue stroking strong and slick against the underside of his length. He stops only when he can feel Q’s coarse, curly pubic hair tickle his nose.

“There’s wind,” Quinn says, voice distant. “There’s a breeze that carries through the open windows and smells of the flowers below the window. Every time I catch their particular scent now, I won’t only be reminded of my arduous hours in the library, but of this. Of you. Trying your damnedest to please me and doing far better than I let on.”

James pulls back, lips rounded and made flush from sucking. His cheeks hollow as he suckles Quinn’s foreskin up around the head of his cock, and it slips back down as he takes him deeper again. Q curls his hand around James’ chin, thumb stroking the strong tendons of his jaw to feel it widen and work. Hot spit cools in the air when his mouth slides free, striking a stroking rhythm with his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” Quinn tells him, dampening his lips with his tongue. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

James turns his head just enough to kiss Q's palm before obeying once more. His own body is tense with pleasure now, his own cock hard in his pants from this fantasy, this game between them. When they’re finished he will take Q upstairs, he will toss him to bed and turn him on his stomach and work him slick with his tongue.

He loves him so much he can feel the ache in his bones.

He continues to suck, with Q’s words of encouragement, stuttered and cut-off descriptions of a scene that is now entirely their own, and moans of need mingling with the blood rushing behind his ears. James sets one hand to Q’s balls, the other to his thigh just to stroke the skin there. 

He can feel it when Q gets close. Always quick, now and supposedly then as well. James hums and swallows him deep once more and refuses to relent when Quinn’s voice breaks and he scrapes fingernails against his scalp.

The taste is welcome, familiar, and James knows that had he been younger, had he been the age they are imagining together, he would have made such a mess. Come spilling down his chin and to the floor in lazy drips. He would have tried to lick it clean, have Quinn dressed again before he moved from beneath the table…

When James pulls back he laughs, turning his head against the hand that pets him over and over. He seeks for the pen again and clicks it on, bringing it close and setting it to the ticklish skin of Q’s thigh. Hushing him and holding him close, James deliberately writes a series of numbers against him and clicks the pen closed once more. With another kiss to Q’s knee, he slips from under the table once more, grinning mischievous and young at his husband. 

“Just getting my pen,” he whispers.

Quinn catches him by the waistband, in lieu of a tie to snare, and reels him close. Skinny chest still heaving breathless, Q braces himself with a kiss against James’ belly, eyes flickering upward. He reaches and wipes clean a drop of semen still glistening warm on his lower lip, and brings it between his own to suckle softly.

“Do be a little more careful next time,” Quinn scolds him, before the moment breaks and he laughs wildly as he snared up from his chair and dragged into a kiss.

He melts against James, as he would have then despite his even greater stubbornness and vicious tenacity. Won over by the bravado, charmed by the cockiness, smitten with his looks and seduced by his cleverness, Q wraps his arms around James’ neck and hoists himself upward, smiling into their kiss as he’s lifted from the floor. He’d have loved him then, eventually, Quinn is certain of it.

He loves him now, undoubtedly, more than anything or anyone in the world.

“What did you write on me?” Quinn asks, squinting.

“That’s for you to find out.”

Squirming loose from James’ embrace, snared instead from behind, he shuffles his pajama pants down to his thighs, cock laying limp and sticky now that he’s spent. Dragging a candle closer, he sees on his thigh a phone number, inked black. Quinn bites his bottom lip and grins, then laughs, then smears his hand across his face and presses his joy against his palm.

“I love you so bloody much, James Bond.”

“Oh, thank God,” James tells him, biting softly against Q’s ear. “Because I was going to propose extinguishing these candles and returning upstairs.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. And I am sure the request would have been far from well received were my affections not returned.”

“You’re a prick,” Q laughs, drawing his legs up as James lifts him from the floor again and turns to start blowing the candles out, one by one. “A right stubborn prick,”

“Fortunately for you, also relentless and turgid to a fault,” James tells him, setting Q down so he can walk on his own, rolling his hips against him just once before taking his hand. “Come on.”

“You’ve left the tea,” Q points out, turning toward the kitchen only to find himself snared around the waist and hoisted again. “What was the point of it if you’re just going to leave it there?”

James gives him a dry look, and meaningfully licks the corner of his lips. It takes Q a moment to register and then he snorts, grinning against Bond’s shoulder and curling his legs up high as he’s carried up the stairs. “Sod the tea,” James murmurs.

“And the cats?”

“Sod them, too.”

“Please don’t,” Q requests, watching over James’ shoulder as the cats follow them up the stairs. “You could just bugger me instead. I’ll take one for the team.”

“Just this once,” James tells him, sighing as though the entire idea of such a thing is unthinkable. He sets Q down by the door and kisses him, hands against his face and eyes closed in his pleasure. Two cats wind between their legs and one James can hear already making himself comfortable on the unmade bed.

Hell. 

What does it matter?

“Get in,” James says, laughing when Q squints at him but obeys. He won't attempt another eviction of creatures who will find their way into their bed regardless. He won't waste the time when he can spend it coddling and cuddling his quartermaster. 

Another time, perhaps. When the lights return.


End file.
